


Days Like These Lead to Nights Like This

by JessieBlackwood



Series: People Like Us [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rupert Graves birthday auction story, a bit of an interlude, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-07-12
Packaged: 2019-06-09 04:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15259557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JessieBlackwood/pseuds/JessieBlackwood
Summary: This is for the lovely bourbon-and-bitters who bid on and won my Mystrade story for the Rupert Graves Auction. The request was for more in my People Like Us universe, with a piece concerning Greg Lestrade's POV as he is away in the Yemen with Medecin sans Frontieres. However, looks like I cannot write 2000 words to save my life. This is 5k and counting!!!!! Enjoy.





	Days Like These Lead to Nights Like This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BourbonNeat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/gifts).



> Apologies for any factual/continuity/formatting errors. If you see any, catch them in a net and hand them over, but be careful, they can be a bit snappish. I shall correct in due course. Blame it on tiredness....
> 
> There are some references to the results of violence, so just being careful with the warnings.

He nearly missed the departure of his flight to Paris. _All because of a bloody card,_ Greg thought ruefully. On his way out the lobby of the hospital, he had spied the cards in the shop, all hearts and red roses…Valentines Day tomorrow. He threw his bag in the back of the waiting taxi and signalled the driver. “Back in a few, mate. Forgot something…Just...I dunno, start the clock, yeah? I’ll make it worth your while.” Greg dashed back inside, ignoring the grumble from the driver. Reaching the shop he fumbled his wallet out of his back pocket and grabbed the nearest card, one with a single red rose and a nice wine red envelope. _Classier than the usual high street offerings,_ he considered, taking his purchase quickly to the reception desk. Sylvia was manning it, and she leaned over the counter top toward him as he approached. The collar of her soft blouse opened strategically and he was treated to a glimpse of cleavage. Greg plastered an affable smile in place, and leaned toward her. 

“Sylvia, my love, can I borrow your pen?”

“Why of course, Mr Lestrade,” she purred. “This one alright?” She handed over her gold biro. 

“Yeah, thanks...Hey, can you remember what that new assistant of Mr Holmes’ is called?” he asked as he tore off the packaging of the card. Opening it, he paused, wondering what to say. _Dear Mycroft…_

“Anthea Mallory,” she replied, a touch frostily. “May one ask why?” She was eyeing the card. “Oh, just...Need to get her on the phone. You couldn’t call her for me, could you?” 

At that moment someone came up to the desk requesting directions. Sylvia turned smoothly away from Greg, engaging in conversation with the visitor, effectively answering his question. _Never mind, I’ll contact her somehow_. Greg penned a couple of paragraphs as fast as he could, but it still took him the best part of ten minutes, knowing his writing would still be well nigh unintelligible. He could almost hear the cliche, _bloody doctors and their handwriting…_

Finishing the letter with just his initial, and placing it in the envelope, he put Mycroft’s name on the front and cast about for a way to get it to him. Sylvia was busy elsewhere it seemed. Just then he spotted Molly, the Physio, crossing the atrium, and he hailed her with a frantic wave.

“What’s up, Mr Lestrade?” 

“Molly, would you do me a big favour?”

“Sure, if I can. What’s up?”

“Get this to Mycroft Holmes for me? I’ve got to get my taxi right now or I’ll miss my plane...”

She looked at the envelope and a slow smile blossomed. “No problem. I can give it to his PA.”

“Would you? Thanks, Molly, so much. You’re amazing and I owe you, big time. Just...keep this under your hat, yeah?”

“Course,” she smiled encouragingly. “Go catch your plane, and stay safe.”

“I’ll try to. Thank you again, Molly, you’ve no idea what this means to me…”

“Just go, you’ll miss your plane.”

He flung himself into the back of the cab and the driver pulled into the traffic, navigating him away from someone Greg knew he had almost been willing to cancel this trip for. He was glad he hadn’t though. In a way, he figured distance would do neither of them any harm. He needed to think, to consider the implications of what had been said, and putting some space between them would let them both accomplish that. 

He just hoped Anthea managed to slip the card into Mycroft’s morning post and didn’t bin the thing. _Bless Molly,_ he thought. _Bloody Sylvia though. Probably jealous. Bet she thinks I was writing a Valentine to Mycroft’s new secretary…_ _Oh, Bloody Hell, that’s going to be all over the hospital now, isn’t it? Someone will think I’m shagging the woman…_ He had to hope that rumour never reached Mycroft’s ears.

**00000000000**

He was the last through the departure gate for the Paris flight that evening. Settling into his seat on the plane, he had forgotten just how much he hated flying. It wasn’t that he was scared or anything, just… He sighed. It was all rather tedious and constricting really, hurtling through the sky couped up in a metal box full of strangers for hours, help up in the air by nothing more than the laws of physics. It was the irritating little things he hated; the pressure in his ears on take off, the inevitable crying baby—even though it wasn’t usually the kid’s fault—constant background chatter, the rarefied air… Even first class couldn’t mitigate all of it, and this wasn’t even business class… 

He closed his eyes and focused on memories of Mycroft, pictured him in his mind’s eye; tall, lean, perfectly dressed, stormy blue grey eyes... Christ, if he didn’t stop thinking about the man’s eyes he would end up in trouble. His trousers were already a bit tight. There was no doubt in his mind of his attraction to the man, but there was still such a long way to go. Those thoughts got him through the journey though, despite allowing his mind to drift onto what Mycroft’s skin might feel like beneath his fingers… He kept the thoughts as chaste as possible though, doing is best to avoid disgracing himself on a planeload of people. He had to hope that absence would make the heart grow fonder, although on balance it wouldn’t surprise him of it made it more distant. 

Greg had elected to stay at the airport hotel, since they were flying out of the same place in the morning. He sent a text to the coordinator to say he had arrived and that he was heading for bed, and got an acknowledgement in return, telling him to have a restful night and that he would see Greg in the morning, not to forget the departure time was 09:00 and he would need to be there at 07:00 at the latest. Greg spent a boring evening doing little more than checking his emails and watching movies before hitting the sack early and waking at five with his alarm. He had arranged an early breakfast, so showered and changed and went down to an almost deserted dining room. A few early risers were there, but he didn’t recognise anyone. His phone flashed up with a text while he was downing his second coffee, but it was from their team leader with an update, asking him to come to gate three at six thirty. It was pointed that four people’s phones trilled with incoming text alerts at the same time. A young woman glanced over and grinned at him.

“You with MSF?” she asked and he nodded. “Tish Malloy, Charge Nurse, Birmingham Royal.”

“Greg Lestrade, Consultant at St Edward’s, London.” 

“Wow, _the_ Greg Lestrade?”

“Beg your pardon? I dunno, is there another one?”

She laughed. “Head of Cardiothoracic Surgery?” she said and he nodded, smiling. “Well, you’re famous where I come from,” she added, reaching to shake his hand. “I read your papers on innovations in trauma surgery and adapting military techniques in a civilian environment when I was at university.”

Greg grinned. “They make good bedtime reading,” he said. “I hear they’re introducing them as an alternative to Lorazepam.” 

She chuckled, charmed. “So...how was your flight?”

“Crap. Yours?”

“Same. Jesus, you’d think they could sort something less…” she flung her hands wide with frustration.

“Irritating?” Greg offered.

“I was going to say basic, but it amounts to the same thing. I know we’re working for a charity but…” she sighed. 

“Yeah, but at least we’re all in it together. All on the same page, as it were.”

“Not sure that’s altogether a good thing. Still, on the upside, the weather is taking a turn for the worse here. We’ll be leaving that behind.”

“You ever done this before?”

“Only the once.”

“Well believe me, after six weeks of sand, sun, bullets and bugs, you’ll be glad to get back.” They continued to chat companionably as they made their way to the airport, and were hailed when they got there by someone holding aloft an MSF sign. 

“Greg Lestrade,” Greg offered as the man ticked off names on his list. 

“Monsieur Lestrade, Bastian Lecroix. Je suis le votre Coordinateur de Projet pour la Médecine Sans Frontières. Il est bon de vous rencontrer,” he said warmly, shaking Greg by the hand.

“Moi aussi,” Greg replied fluently. “Tout est prêt pour le départ?”

“En quelques minutes, Monsieur Lestrade.” The man smiled at Tish and proceeded to tick her off as well. “If you will follow me,” he said, leading them to a large lounge which was obviously reserved for the MSF volunteers and staff who were flying out that morning. “Mr Chattergee mentioned you were joining us again,” he said to Greg. “May I say, it’s a pleasure to have you with us. Your sixth year, yes?” 

Greg was aware of Tish glancing at him on seeing the welcome he was receiving. She was noting everything that was said, albeit that she was being discreet. He ignored her and followed Bastian into the room. _She’s nice,_ he thought, a little abscently. _Even pretty in her own way, and maybe even interested in me,_ but Greg found he had no interest in her. It brought him up short. _Am I already so manifestly invested in Mycroft Holmes that I might actually pass up a fling with an obviously pretty woman? Apparently so._

“Greggsy!” The sudden shout was followed by a body hurtling into his arms.

“Christ!” Greg swore as the breath was knocked out of him. “Jim?”

James Moriarty stood back, a grin on his face, his lovely dark eyes dancing. “The same,” he said, executing a small bow.

“Gods, Jim, long time, no see, mate. How are you?” 

“Never better. It’s Professor Moriarty now, I’ll have you know,” he said, tapping Greg lightly on the chest. 

“Professor? You? Well, that’s a turn up. When did that happen?”

“Just got the job, part time professor of surgery at Dublin.”

An idea occurred to Greg. “Congratulations!” he declared. The next moment he had pulled the man close and planted a kiss full on his lips. He felt Jim tense, startled, but then he relaxed into it. 

“Oh, I _really_ have missed you,” Jim declared, eyes dancing. Greg lead him away from Tish until they were out of earshot. “What’s gotten into you then, Handsome?” Jim murmured. “Can’t imagine you’ve missed me _that_ much?”

“Sorry, really...I…” Greg sighed. “I didn’t know what else to do… Seemed like a good idea at the time. Feel free to tell me I’m a twat.”

“Hey, not a problem, really. Certainly not when you kiss like _that._ Was it for the benefit of that woman you were with? What’s her name?”

“I only just met her this morning at the hotel. Her name’s Tish…”

“You could have been in with a chance there. I’d know that look in her eye anywhere. Don't worry, your little ploy seems to have worked. Now she only looks disappointed.”

Greg ran a hand through his hair. “We got talking after breakfast. She’s a fan, knows my work…”

“So? What’s up? The lovely Lyn still got you on a tight leash?”

“No, Christ no, nothing like that. We split last year. Decree absolute came through before Christmas.”

“Jesus, it is a long time since I spoke to you.” Jim grinned. “Well, congratulations yourself. I always swore that woman would burn the heart out of you. Well done for that, Babe. She never deserved you. However, that means you’re footloose and fancy free, Greg. Why not take what’s obviously on offer?” 

“Well…”

Jim raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Well?”

“Yeah...well…” Greg was hesitant.

“Oh, do I detect news there?”

“Possibly. It’s….very new, whatever _it_ is.”

“It’s okay. You can fill me in later. We seem to be boarding, finally.”

Of course Greg found himself seated next to Jim for the flight. 

“So,” he said, once they were settled and seatbelts secured for the take off, “you still in Harley Street as well as the teaching?” Jim had specialised in corrective surgery and gone down the more lucrative plastic surgery route, although he still donated time and energy to causes like MSF and Stoke Mandeville.

“I am indeed. Although I took the teaching position because frankly I’m getting bored of the boob jobs and the lipo.”

“My heart bleeds,” Greg murmured, grinning. “Barbados again this year, is it?”

“Shut up, you.” Jim chuckled. “Kettle calling pan black. Not like you chose a career with the NHS.”

“Not forgotten I started out there though. Just...the hours are better and the pay is good.”

Jim nodded, sagely. “So,” he said, lowering his voice, “where were we? Oh yes,” he said with a sly smile. “You’re a divorcee now…”

“Jim, stop. I know what you’re about to suggest and I’m sorry I kind of lead you on there, and while I think you’re a lovely bloke...”

“Well I’m flattered that you think I’m lovely, but I was going to suggest no such thing,” Jim protested, mortally offended. 

“Doesn’t stop you thinking it though.” Greg swatted him playfully on the arm. 

“Oh, shut up!” Jim retorted, still smiling. “Seriously though, you are not acting like a free man, so what’s the goss?”

“There might be someone, but I cannot stress the _might_ enough. It’s so new, it’s not even off the ground.”

“So who is she?”

“He.” Jim nearly choked. 

“He?”

“What’s so strange about that?”

“Nothing. Just a little off your radar though, isn’t it? Despite that rather nice kiss you gave me...”

“Not entirely off my radar. I’m not exactly straight, you know.”

“I’m disappointed, Greg,” Jim pouted, teasing. Greg made a dismissive noise and Jim frowned. “Seriously,” he added, “you’re a looker, you know? How come the last person to know is you? You’re a regular silver fox.” Greg laughed and rolled his eyes. “S’true, so who’s got you in a tizzy then?”

“He’s on the board of the hospital. His kid brother is a patient of mine.”

“And you two just...what? Hit it off?”

“Hardly. Look, leave it for now. Bit too public, yeah? When this tin box lands, I’ll tell you more.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jim vowed.

“Yeah, well, that’s all you’ll be allowed to hold.”

“You’re a cruel man, Greg Lestrade, a _cruel_ man…”

**000000000000**

The organised chaos of their first destination, the Shiara hospital in the town of Razeh, took Greg’s attention for the first few days of his stay. The world around him devolved into heat, sand, blood and urgency. They were operating on civilians and soldiers alike, around the clock, all victims of the conflict. It didn’t matter what side they were on, MSF would treat them all. Greg would hit his bunk every night and sleep solidly for as many exhausted hours as he could, barring emergencies like incoming wounded from the most recent skirmish or babies arriving afore times. By the end of the first week, he was surprised it hadn’t been as bad as he’d feared. He was tired, but he could cope with it. 

The first text arrived as he was about to go into an emergency surgery at the beginning of his second week. It was late, and he needed his bed, but more importantly the surgery couldn’t wait. Impatiently, he opened the message and frowned.

**Suggest evacuate your base of ops to Sana’a asap. Intel has come to my attention that rebel insurgents are heading in the direction of your current GPS signal and retaliatory air strikes are possible. Please do not ignore this advice and please acknowledge receipt of this text asap MH**

Greg stared at the text and frowned. It was time stamped at 20.45. _Who the fuck does Mycroft know to get that information?_ He wondered. _Hang on, he’s monitoring my GPS? Oh, who the fuck cares right now?_ Right at that moment, it was urgent he get to the theatre…

**Needed in theatre right now. Will pass the message on. GL**

**21.10**

An hour later he emerged from theatre to find four more texts on his phone **.**

**Retaliatory air strikes are imminent! Please respond. MH**

**21.16am**

**Gregory where are you? MH**

**21.27am**

**You and your colleagues are in immediate danger. Please do not ignore this message. Speak to your supervisor right now. MH**

**21.31am**

Greg stared at the texts. Mycroft was getting a little...forceful. The last one was a half hour old. He should really head to bed, get some rest before tomorrow. Instead, he went to find Bastian, reaching the man’s door to see a light still on in his office. kept long hours just the same as everybody else. Greg was about to knock on the door when everything went to Hell.

**0000000000**

Greg picked himself up off his knees and peered through the darkness. Dust choked the air and alarms were blaring. Bastian staggered out of his door, coughing. “Christ, what the fuck happened?”

“The building’s been hit by something.” Greg leaned on the wall shakily, coughing. “Fuck...no idea where it hit.”

“We need to evacuate, there might be more.” 

“Fuck that, there might be wounded. I’m going to find out.”

The missile had hit the rooms where he and his colleagues were billeted. Running full pelt to see what, if anything, he could do, he saw Jim standing in the atrium that lead to the offices that had been turned into impromptu sleeping quarters, dust and blood covering him, and felt immediate relief at seeing him alive along with eight other MSF doctors and nurses who had been assigned to the hospital. 

“Are we all accounted for?” Greg asked. Wearily, Jim turned and shook his head. 

“Coll, Tish and Harry are missing…” he said, quietly. “Another dozen of the Yemeni staff as well. All the damage seems to be at the far end of the wing. They're saying a couple of missiles were fired toward the town, one clipped the corner of the hospital, blew out the rooms on the end. Harry should have been operating this evening but nobody has seen him. I know Tish and Coll were heading for bed at the same time as me.” He turned anguished eyes on Greg. “Jesus...her room was on the end of the wing…”

“Harry was doing an emergency c-section,” Bastian said, coming up behind them and checking his watch. “Should still be theatre.”

“You’re bleeding, Jim. Here, let me see,” Greg said, turning the man to face him. “Did you lose consciousness at any point?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Jim winced as Greg located the damage, a jagged laceration on his scalp, just above the hairline.

“Good, but you got hit by something good and proper. Just look at me for a moment.” Greg examined his eyes, turning his head slightly so an overhead light shone directly into them. The pupils, he was pleased to see, reacted equally and seemed to be the same size. “Think I can rule out concussion. Might need to do a proper examination on you though. I need to treat that head wound anyway. Anybody else hurt?” Most of the others were dust covered and shocked but otherwise unharmed. Emergency personnel were already investigating the wing of the building, keeping anyone else out, but in a hospital, there were plenty of emergency staff to deal with casualties.

“I’m pulling us back to Sana’a,” Bastian said with finality. “We move out tomorrow, no arguments. Adam is liaising with the emergency personnel and I need to go contact HQ.” With that, he was gone.

Back in his office, Mycroft stood watching the satellite imagery, seeing nothing but the repeat of the hospital wing crumble to dust under the impact. _Please be alright, please be alright, please be alright…_ It was late in London, and The Yemen was ahead by three hours. Greg should have gone to his bed. It was part of the residential wing that had been hit and Mycroft could not help but fear the worst. The odds that Greg had gone to bed were high. His phone pinged and he grabbed it, breathing a heavy sigh of relief when he saw who it was from.

**Alive GL**

That was all he required, but… it did not bode well. Only one word meant Greg had no time for more. Mycroft struggled with the onrush of emotions tumbling through his head. Part of him was angry that Greg had ignored the warning, but the rational part of him understood that his text had arrived when Greg had been on the point of beginning emergency surgery and had obviously considered that it couldn’t wait. Part of him was scared that he could lose the man, in more ways than one. If Greg wasn't killed in this endeavour he could simply walk away from their fledgling relationship. He might find Mycroft too overbearing and protective. Gregory Lestrade was a survivor, a no-nonsense pragmatist, and he would not appreciate codling… 

**000000000000**

Tish was the only MSF fatality, Greg was told in the morning. Harry had been operating, and Coll had a broken arm but was otherwise unharmed. She would be shipped home as soon as it could be arranged, but the rest of them including Greg were being relocated and the continuation of their work in the country was currently under review. Five of the Yemeni staff had also died and if it was deemed too dangerous, they would likely be sent home. Glumly, Greg surveyed the lorries and the bus being loaded to take them away to safer territory. 

“You okay?” Jim walked up alongside him, leaning against him for support. Greg wrapped an arm around him without hesitation.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” he said.

Jim grinned. “Suppose,” he said, quietly. “Look, about Tish...”

“I know. I feel…” Greg paused, “...guilty, I guess.”

“Guilty? Why? You hardly knew the woman.”

“I...got a warning…”

“A warning? What kind of warning?”

“A text, from my… from him. Warning me to urge evacuation of the base… I just didn’t take him seriously enough. I had an emergency op to do, and I was in a hurry, and...now she’d dead…If only I’d gone the moment I got the text, she might still be alive.”

“You can’t know that, not for sure. Even if you’d tried, Bastian can be a pedantic SOB. He most probably wouldn’t have agreed to leave on a warning from someone he didn’t know.”

“Yeah, well, never gave him the opportunity, did I?”

“Well, I don’t think you should feel guilty. It wasn’t you fired the missile.”

“No, but...anyway…”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand. Still don’t think you should feel guilty, but it doesn’t matter what I think, does it? I mean, you’re you, Greg. You’ll still feel responsible, that’s just the way you are. Come on, let’s get a seat. Bags I the back seat...”

Greg shook his head and smiled. “Big kid,” he said.

“Growing old is compulsory,” Jim shot back at him. “Growing up is not…”

**Evacuating to Sana’a. One of our people killed. Five more Yemeni dead too. GL**

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief but he felt far from happy. Greg was in danger, and if he could, he would do everything to make sure he was not put in that position again. Short of having him extracted, which would most likely incur the man's wrath rather than his gratitude, there was nought to be done but redouble his efforts, and those of Q Branch, to monitor the situation, accurately predict where the problems would occur and issue a warning early enough for it to be of use. 

**000000000000**

“What do you mean, evacuate to Aiden?” Peter said, a frown on his bushy brows. “On what grounds, Greg?” 

Greg looked at the Project Coordinator and sighed. Since they had been assigned to Ad Dhale Peter hadn’t been the easiest of people to talk to. “Look, I’ve got a mate, in the security services back home. He keeps feeding me intel on what’s going on in the area. This isn’t a joke or a wind up, I can assure you. If he says we’ve got trouble, then we’ve got trouble. When we were in Rizah, he sent a message about the air strikes. I ignored it, and we were hit. People died, including one of ours.”

“I don’t know. If we were in danger, we’d have received word by now.”

“Look, I don’t like it any more than you, but fact remains this intel is good.”

“Thanks for bringing it to me, Greg, but I can’t evacuate the whole place on some guy’s whim.”

Greg bristled. “He’s not _some guy,_ and this is not a whim, I can promise you that.”

“Still…”

“Sir!” They were interrupted by a shout and a man dressed in loose combat gear came in the door. 

“Yes. What is it, Khaled?”

“Evac in one hour, sir. 16:00 local time. Local intel says the Houthi are coming this way. ETA just under two hours.” Peter glanced at Greg and shared a look that spoke volumes.

Back in his room, packing frantically, dancing around Jim, who was similarly engaged, Greg was mindful to send a text back.

**Evacuating. Will talk later. This time I took it seriously. Thank you. GL**

**000000000000**

**Good morning. The weather in your neck of the woods appears fine and is set to stay that way for the foreseeable future. MH**

**16.03.18 07:34**

**Good morning, Gregory. I trust you are well. Light to moderate Houthi in your area. I am assured they are not an immediate threat. Will update as necessary. MH 18.03.18 08.00**

**Good evening, Gregory. I hope you are well. A good idea not to leave your hospital for the next few days. Reports of carjacking in the area. Stay safe. MH**

**21.03.18 19:42**

**Just to wish you goodnight. MH**

**24.03.18 22:02**

**Just to wish you a good morning, Gregory. Have as pleasant a day as is possible. Stay safe. MH**

**27.03.18 07:26**

Days blended into weeks and the texts grew more informal, until the last couple of weeks when Mycroft was texting almost every other day. In that time Greg found himself operating on many and varied patients, and had to draw on every last bit of his trauma care experience to deal with most of them. The conflict came close on more than one occasion, feuding families seeking out patients to exact revenge, gunshots being loosed in the compound outside, and reports of carjackings. Throughout it all though the texts kept coming, small messages, warnings, updates. He sent the bare minimum back, often not having enough time to do more than say _thank you_ or _you too,_ as appropriate. Greg was careful to stay put in the hospital, and found himself billetted with Jim again. 

With less than ten days to go, Greg found Jim already flat out in his bunk one evening after dinner.

“How was your day?” Greg asked, flopping onto his bunk. 

“Mental,” Jim answered, wearily, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. His spine popped and he groaned. “Yours go okay?” he added as an afterthought.

“Same,” Greg replied, toeing off his shoes. “Jim?”

“Hm?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Fire away.”

“If someone was constantly sending texts to help you stay safe, what does that say about a relationship?”

“What kind of texts?”

“He’s sending intel on where the threats are. I have no idea how he’s accessing the info but he’s got...contacts.”

Jim twisted on his bed and stared at Greg. “Intel on where the local threats are? You mean he keeps sending you warnings? I knew you’d had that one before but...Are you serious? Who does he think he is, James Bond?”

“No clue. He’s right though. Every fucking warning so far has been spot on.”

“That sounds like a man who wants to keep you safe.” 

“I’m just not sure what his motives are...”

“This the hospital guy?”

“Mhm.”

“He’s invested in making sure you come back, isn’t he?”

“Looks that way.”

“Hope you reply.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So is that it? He sends info and you just tell him you’ve got it?”

“That’s not all.”

“No?”

“No. He...sends little messages. Greetings, that kind of thing.”

“Greetings?”

“Yeah, like good morning, good night, how are you, hope you’re well...You get the picture?”

“Taking it seriously, isn’t he?”

“You think?”

“What is he, honestly?”

“I have no fucking idea. For all I know he might be running the government, or he could be MI5, MI6, or the CIA on a part time basis. What he’s doing in a hospital in Marylebone, even a private one, is anybody’s guess. Only this info is the real deal. Wherever he gets it from, it’s accurate.”

“For someone to have intel like that… He’d need to have access to military resources, or security services…Or maybe he knows my grandma,” Jim mused. “She always has info like that. You know, stuff the neighbours are always the last to know…” 

Greg guffawed. “Jesus, Jim...please, I cannot imagine Mycroft knowing your grandma.”

“Mycroft is it? Unusual name.”

“His brother said they had creative parents.”

“Hm..well, whatever else he is, he wants to impress you, and keep you safe, all at the same time. Obviously likes killing two birds with one stone.”

“Not helping, Jim.”

“Nonsense. Of course it’s helping. Your Mycroft is obviously interested in you, or why go to these lengths to make sure you’re safe? You, Gregsy, my boy, are a lucky son of a bitch. The sooner you realise that the better.”

**00000000000**

Into the last week before they were due to ship out and Greg found himself tested more than ever before. Air strikes had hit a school and the casualties were flooding in. Children were being brought in, blood covered and confused and in pain, and their parents were frantic, desperate for help to save their little ones. The delicate work did nothing for his hands. By day Greg fought to save his patients and at night fought to keep his fingers from seizing up. At times he felt it was a losing battle.

“You’ve got arthritis, haven’t you?” Jim asked one night as the two men were settling for sleep.

“It’s starting,” Greg agreed. “Been getting steadily worse over the last six months. Not sure what to do, really. It’ll knacker my ability to operate sometime soon.”

“Don’t have to just suffer, you know?” Jim said. “Hell, you do know that, don't you?”

“Know what?”

“There are strategies,” Jim said, and went on to outline various ways Greg could approach the management of his condition. Greg sat and listened with a bemused expression on his face. “And you a surgeon,” Jim grinned. “Cannot believe you don’t already know all this.”

“I’m not totally clueless but it’s definitely not my division,” Greg confessed. “However, I am going to consult with a colleague in Physio at work. Apparently they tell me it’s his speciality.” 

“See that you do,” Jim admonished. “And you know what else you’re going to do?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“You owe your bloke a big thank you. I’m sure you can think of a way to do that.” Jim waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Jim, I can’t just drop to my knees and give him a blow job…”

“Whyever not? Not something I would object to.”

“Shut. Up. Now.”

Jim laughed. “Greg, Greg, Greg. You have to remember, your skills with your own sex are likely to be rusty. You may need a little practice. Don’t forget I’m a professor now…ooft!” he huffed as a pillow hit him in the face. “Now, now, no need to be like that…”

“I do not need practice, you young whelp. What I do need is sleep, so shut the fuck up. Please,” he added as an afterthought. 

“As I recall, it was you asked me the question. Grumpy git.” 

“I am not a git.”

“I note you did not deny being grumpy.” 

Greg sighed. “Yeah, well, afraid that’s so embedded I'd probably need surgery to remove it.” 

“There's a more effective treatment, you know? It's called being in love.”

“Last time I looked, I was nowhere near that.”

“Well from what I've seen, I think you're closer than you realise. 

**00000000000**

Greg felt an overriding feeling of relief as they boarded a plane home. He slept most of the way, although he had traded seats to be able to sit next to Jim on the way back. Jim was also slumbering, both men having just about reached the end of their endurance. 

“Will you do this again, do you think?” Jim asked sleepily. Greg paused before giving him an answer to the point where Jim rolled his head to look at him. “You alright there?” he prompted.

Greg nodded. “Just considering,” he said. “In answer to the question, probably not. This has quite honestly been the hardest one I've ever been on. This time we lost someone, one of our own.” He took a deep breath. “And those kids… Who the fuck does that to kids? Nope, sorry, but when kids like that start to suffer, something is seriously fucked up. I'm really not sure I could cope with that again.”

“Didn’t I hear you gave a direct transfusion to one of your patients?” 

“Don't you start. I got a bollocking from Bastian for that already.”

“I wasn't going to give you a hard time. Not sure I'd have done it but…”

“She was _dying_ …and we had no reserves left, so I did the only thing open to me. Or so I thought.”

“Did she survive?” 

“That's the kicker. Died three days later in her parents’ arms.”

“Well, you gave ‘em that much.”

“What? False hope?” 

“No, you gave them time to say goodbye, and be with their kid in her last moments. You never know how much that means to some people. At least she didn't die alone on the table, Greg.”

“Everybody dies alone, mate,” Greg murmured. “None of us are getting out of here alive, after all.”

“So it's as well to remember, life's too short to take what you're given for granted. Go home, Greg, and make sure your tell that man of yours how much you've missed him.”

Greg parted warmly from Jim when they landed in the UK, watching him saunter away to retrieve his car from the secure airport parking. He had been worried for Jim's capability to drive after what amounted to two rather exhausting flights but the man seemed chipper enough. 

“Honestly, you could come home with me. I've got a spare room. Go home tomorrow.”

“Nope, I'm fine. Besides, looks like you've got a reception committee… there's a guy over there looking at you very…intently. That him then?” Greg glanced over to see Mycroft watching him very intently indeed. His heart gave an odd leap. He nodded. 

“Yup, that's him.”

“Bit of alright, if you ask me. Off you go. Let me know how it goes, yeah?”

“I will. You keep in touch too? Text me when you're home. I want to know you're safe.” 

“Okay, _dad_. Keep in touch, don't be a stranger, yada, yada,” Jim teased, and waved as he walked off. “And don’t forget, I want an invite to the wedding….”

Greg cast his eyes back to Mycroft, standing there, waiting for him, and allowed his face to split into a delighted grin. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fatalities while working for MSF are real. These guys and gals really put themselves on the line to bring much needed medical aid to areas of the world that are struggling under the weight of war or disaster. Spare a thought for them while you read and consider donating. My research for this story brought with it a whole new understanding. I take my hat off to you all.


End file.
